Is there any such thing as a true voice?

I am bumbling around. I know what to do, and don't do it, I figure it out, and wait. I write, not caring how I sound, just that it comes out. This will lead no where.

Yesterday on the bus, Miguel and I asked each other the question, "Do you feel like an American?"
I explained, "Well, I didn't even think I was white until someone told me."
This correlates to also how I didn't recognize that my mother had a somewhat thick arab accent until someone told me. This especially becomes clear when she uses the wrong words or others say they just can't understand her accent, and I not only understand but can fill in the words she graps for in conversation, I know how wide her vocabulary is. The mind is curious place.

We share an understanding of my faith, my blood, it's not like an identity. And I want to make this clear. My mother did not instill in me an identity. I mean of course she did.

blah blah blah...


New story: later